I'm back!!!

After a brief hiatus, I realize my mind races if I don't write my thoughts down. Its called my "Mind Dump". And you all know that if you don't empty out time to time, things can get really backed up. So I promise a weekly excerpt, even if it doesn't make sense. But does anything in life make sense when push comes to shove?



Tuesday, December 28, 2010

The Romantic Elliptical, Part 17: Stop eating like the birds

On a spiritual level, when you are at your lowest point, your senses to everything are heightened. For instance, while I would sit outside in the backyard, in my mother's favorite chair, I took notice of things happening around me. I grew up living outside--I would leave the house early in the morning, not to return until the streetlights came on. But I was too busy noticing life around me. Now, when I wanted to avoid human interaction, the backyard became a whole new world of events that were occuring whether I was there or not.

For instance, I saw the same bird every morning I stepped out. This bird was unique in its colours. One thing in particular was he had a small patch of yellow near one eye. He would sit out on the fence separating the neighbours yard and stare back at me while I sipped my tea. When I could not eat the rest of my toast, I would throw it towards the fence and watch him eat the remnants. On most sunny days, I would see him there. I imagined him watching me sit down in my chair with my tea and say: "Toast woman has arrived." Although I knew our relationship was all about the toast, I was led to believe he was there for another reason.

The next morning after the fashion show, I was unexplicably nauseous. After weeks of no appetite, I still did not want to eat anything. I toasted one bread and made my tea. I put everything onto a tray and headed towards the backyard. It was early in the morning, around 6:30am. Everyone was asleep inside. As I sat down to drink my tea, I looked for my bird. He was nowhere to be seen. I grabbed my sweater and gathered it around my neck. It was starting to get cooler in the mornings now. Perhaps he was ready to head South. I rested my head against the back of the chair. Still no sign. I closed my eyes. I was still tired. I had problems sleeping that night which was starting to be the routine. Suddenly, the image of the tweed jacket guy came into my mind. I must have snoozed for about ten minutes when I heard chirping.

When I looked up, my bird had arrived. And this time, he had a friend. I had not seen this other bird--this is the first time he had company. I sat motionless and watched them both. I tore my toast in half and threw it over. For the first time, he did not move. Neither did the other bird. They just looked at me. Without any exaggeration, I can tell you that each time I had offered him bread, he had come and eaten it.

Puzzled, my mind tried to find a reason. Maybe he wanted his friend to have it; or maybe he had already eaten. I smiled and realized here I was trying to figure out the nature of birds when out of blue, without rhyme or reason, my bird flew down from the fence, picked up the remaining half of the bread off the grass and dropped it at my feet!! He flew back to the fence and cocked his head at me. I do not lie! And then I understood it to be a sign. Neither bird ate the bread. It is instinct for birds to find food and eat it--it was part of their survival. I was nowhere near the bread when I threw it over to them--the bread was made the same way I always prepared it. Nothing different and yet my bird was returning it to me. Like he was telling me something. No, YOU eat it. I wanted to grab my video camera to tape them because I knew no one would believe my story but the sign had already happened. Plus I was too scared to move lest they fly away. I picked up the other half of toast from the tray, very slowly, while keeping my eye on the birds. They continued to chirp and watch me. I polished it off and drank the rest of my tea. When there was not a morsel left on my plate, the birds left. Just like that. And that was the last time I saw them.

And for some reason, I got my appetite back...

Monday, December 27, 2010

The Romantic Elliptical: Part 16, Fine line between coincidence and fate

I dressed for the fashion show with dismay. Everything was too big. I had a lost about 20 pounds in two months. Whatever I put on looked like a curtain. Great. By the time of my engagement, I would be the curtain rod.

We drove out of the city and arrived at the community centre. The parking lot was packed. I had told my fiancee about the event and he assured me he would be there. He was helping out organizing the event with the youth group he was involved in. When we entered, the show had already begun. We grabbed seats at the back. I saw my fiancee near the front and waved. The funny thing was he did not recognize me. I had lost some more weight from our mall encounter and he had to do a double take.

Once the show was over, I stood with my father and sister. My fiancee was still busy with the aftermath so I walked out of the main hall into the front lobby. One of my girlfriends happened to be walking in at the same time I was walking out. She grabbed my elbow to berate me about my weight loss. As she was ranting, my eye caught a scene and I looked passed her to see a group of guys huddled in a circle near the front doors. I blinked twice. It was him.

He was laughing, stand nonchalantly, with his hands in his pant pockets. His friends were talking in an animated fashion and I realized one of them was recounting a story. He listened to him intently. I was riveted by the scene. My friend stopped and looked over. She looked back at me and narrowed her eyes. I felt bad and asked her to repeat what she was saying but I did not hear her again for the second time. I blocked out the noise around me and finally, after two months, was able to focus.

Look over here, I called. If it is meant to be, then you will look over here.

My friend has stopped speaking again and watched me as I watched him.

I think it was the craziest thing I had done to date. I did not believe in telepathy nor did I understand the sixth sense that was guiding me to keep watching. I didn't know why I was calling out to a stranger. But by now, he was no stranger. The guy with the tweed jacket. Now, he was wearing a suit. Why did he catch my attention? Why did he stand out in the crowd? Many people were filing out of the main hall into the lobby. There must have been 50 people between us. I looked down and shook my head. What am I doing? I need to get out of here.

As my confused friend bid me goodbye, I looked up. Out of a crowd of 50 people, he was looking directly at me.

There was no fighting it. So I did not look away.

This time I knew.

Friday, December 24, 2010

The Romantic Elliptical: Part 15, Twice bitten

By the end of August 1990, I weighed 110 pounds. Clearly, for my 5 foot 4 inch frame, I was now officially underweight. After that fateful Sunday, I had lost my appetite and ability to sleep. I could not focus nor concentrate on any task. I walked around in a zombie-like state. I neglected my chores at home and many nights there would be no dinner prepared. When my friends called the house, my father would ask me to pick up the phone but I would pretend to be busy. After weeks of not returning their calls, they knew something was wrong.

Although I had made up my mind to let things work themselves out on their own, I could not help but feel like I was losing control. I did not speak to my father for three weeks. I gave him mumbled replies but for the most part, I eluded his company. I had just completed a summer course and my mark was worst than what I expected. My father was the type that when I brought home a 97%, he would ask about the other 3%. I walked around feeling whatever I did was not good enough.

I stopped accompanying him on grocery trips, sitting with him during 60 Minutes, eating at the table with the family and discontinued our long walks in the evening. The more I distanced myself, the more I lost weight. I didn't plan for it. I knew I was slipping into the depressive state I was in after my mother passed away the summer before.

And he was worried.

When I sat in the backyard, for days, in my mom's favorite chair, he realized he needed to do damage control.

You see, for those who know me, I do not stop talking. I talk when I am excited, nervous, mad and happy. I just do not shut up. Of course, I know the social mores. I know when to be politically correct and quiet in some scenarios, but when I am sad, I bottle up my feelings and remove myself from the world. My brother and sister knew that when I was silent, the storm was brewing.

I had spoken to my fiancee the next night after our unannounced visit. He was not upset at all. He viewed the whole visit in a different light. An attempt for my father to get close to him, to get to know him and the public outing was a sign of acceptance. I verbally agreed with his assumption but physically, my body was rejecting his theory. The more he spoke, the more I felt sick.

I know about the notion of mind over body, but here's the thing: my mind accepted the situation. I was going to be engaged in three months. We were planning for it, preparing for it. At the same time, my body did its own thing. For one, I turned into a vegetarian. This flabbergasted our carnivorous community when we were invited over for dinners and I refused even to look at the meat. I stopped eating breakfast all together and only nibbled at lunch and dinner. As I looked down at my body one day in the shower, I was struck by the vision of my ribs sticking out and the concaved-shape of my stomach. The measurements of my engagement dress would be altered another three times.

In an attempt to lift my spirits, my father would ask me to go out with him to several events. He was an extreme social butterfly, mixing with the different figures in high society at political and social soirees. Each time I would turn him down, he would lecture me about withdrawal. My attitude had to change, he insisted. But I turned the other cheek. Finally, he sat me down one day to talk. He wanted to let me know that taking me to the mall that day was done for my own good. That he meant no harm by it and all he wanted me to do was re-evaluate the situation. He was not forbidding me from marrying. He put his hand on my shoulder and told me that he accepted my choice and was backing my decision. As he rubbed my back, he was shocked by my frailty. I looked past him with hollow eyes. Too bad, I thought. The damage was done. The acceptance was two months too late.

One day, in an attempt to uplift my spirits, the entire family approached me to go to the city for a Pakistani fashion show. I rolled my eyes and curled up in my mom's chair in the backyard. It was a warm Saturday afternoon in September and I sat with my tea in hand enraptured by Nature. My brother leaned over and whispered in my ear.

"He is really worried about you. Just come with us this once. It will do you some good to get out," he implored.

I looked at him. My baby brother. He was only 15 when she died. And he shocked me with his independance. I never saw him cry the day of her funeral. The next week, it seemed he had moved on with his life. I accused him of not caring, not mourning. But he had his own way of coping. And instead of me caring for him, he stayed strong during my disillusionment. So I quietly agreed to go.

Little did I know, fate would bite me in the a** again...

Thursday, December 23, 2010

The Romantic Elliptical: Part 14, The Shopping Learning Curve

While recounting this story to a close friend, she stopped me immediately to ask the expected question: "Why did it matter that you went to see your fiancee at his job? Why was this a pivotal moment for you and your father? I don't get it!"

Ironically, it was not the pivotal moment in the whole story, although it was part of a series of events leading to self-discovery. The trip to the mall jolted me in understanding the reasons why I had defied my father in the first place.

Imagine this: Except for once, at a social gathering, with many people surrounding us, this was only the SECOND time I had met him, in person. I am sure until this day, my father does not believe me. Given my rebellious streak, the many times I disobeyed or challenged him, for me to have this clandestine yet 'safe' relationship was certainly out of character for me. It was still kosher in my eyes, albeit not in my father's. And not meeting him in person allowed me to justify my reasons in my intent to marry. I felt this wasn't the worse that I could do. Many girls I knew had done the unthinkable.

Be that as it may, my father taking me on that fateful shopping trip was part of His plan. Wake up and smell the coffee...one of my favorite phrases. I was in a caffeinated haze so much so that I disregarded the true essence of the coffee--the tastes and smells. All my father did was remove the caffeine so I could truly see reality of it all. At this point, the coffee metaphor was lost for my inquiring girlfriend.

Essentially, my father was all about three things: social status, education, and money. If you were missing these or just one of the criteria, you were not considered worthy. Three strikes and you were out. To many reading this, it may appear completely shallow. So to continue the ruse, I pretended that it did not matter to me. My mother said to me, if you prick the skin of anyone, male or female, poor or rich, educated or illiterate, we all bled the same colour of blood. Technically, I had all the criteria my father spoke highly of. But when I was bullied at a young age, I always thought it was because I was missing something. I was not good enough. And I wanted to be accepted for me. So I accepted my fiancee for who he was.

At the same time, growing up with highly educated, middle-class parents who had saved enough money to put us all through school, even if we specialized, I was rationalizing my father's values. Working hard was drilled into our brains since birth. Heck, even my mother remembered me helping her around the house and trying to read the newspaper when I was three! Perhaps back then I would probably be diagnosed with ADD because I could not sit still. Nonetheless, I was always doing something! It was instilled in our way of thinking and how we viewed life. I had my own personal values but they also were intertwined and blended with my family values. The dilemna was how to consolidate both without feeling I copped out.

My father made it very clear about my fiancee's situation: university drop-out, working low-paying retail job, no apparent family wealth and no current ambitions. I was angered with his judgement but deep down my father was rattling my core. In the end, how was he a match for me? With years of phone calls and letters, I thought I knew him well enough. But did I? Did I choose him for convenience? Did I choose him to rebel? Did I choose him in a downward spiral of vulnerability?

When my mother was alive, she was the last to judge anyone. With whatever limited freedom she possessed, I felt at times, she was trying to live her life through me. But she was always close, guiding me ever so gently without me knowing it. Take that part of the equation away and I did not know what I equaled to. Her death signalled the beginning of me trying to grapple with the unexpected.

My father was insidious, like a shrewd businessman, protecting his investment. However, his attempts at grappling with the unexpected was shrouded in an air of control. So much that it ultimately suffocated me. I know his intent was to protect me but I daresay I experienced a euphoric release to conquer rather than succumb to his domination.

My way or the highway. My father's favorite phrase. I tried to defy him by taking the highway. No directions, no map, no vehicle, no destination. At the end, I had no definate plan. He was just trying to thwart my attempts at rebellion.

And he succeeded in a subtle move that only my mother was famous for.

We both were part of that learning curve.

The Romantic Elliptical: Part 13, The Invisible Player

As we approached his store, the lump in my throat was now a boulder. My father asked me to wait outside the men's clothing store so he could go and fetch him. I was cemented to the spot where I stood. My legs felt like lead and I was lightheaded. I watched intensely as he approached the store desk. There were two girls and one nodded and headed to the back. My fiancee was the manager and I imagined was working in the back on paperwork.

I fidgeted with my hair and laughed out loud. A couple walked passed me, wondering what I was laughing about. LIFE, that's what is so funny, I wanted to yell out to them. I remember their arms were linked and they were walking and smiling, looking into each other's eyes...so happy. Why couldn't I be normal like them? Why can't I just date and find a husband like everyone else? Why am I being persecuted for doing what I wanted? I looked back in the store to witness the shock on my fiancee's face when he saw my father. He looked at me, outside the store, my arms draped on the railing of the upper floor. I wanted to jump. I looked away and down. It was surreal. This was not happening.

They came out. He was cordial with my father and I and suggested we go to the food court for tea. It was 11am and the mall was not too busy for a Sunday morning. I heard my heart thumping in my brain. We found a seat and he went to fetch tea and muffins while we waited at the table. I could not look at my father. I clutched my purse and tried to concentrate on something else. My father did not speak to me either as we waited in silence. He returned with the food and sat next to my father. He was visibly nervous. He must have been wondering how we ended up here, without warning, without a call. But he did his best to impress my father.

I do not remember most of the conversation. I think I blacked out temporarily and tried not to commit anything to memory. Thinking that my father would drill him, on the contrary, he ended up being too nice to him. They talked, laughed at each others jokes and sipped their tea with gated silence. I do not remember eating or drinking. Nor did I speak. Everytime I tried to chime in, the dryness in my throat prevented me from adding to the conversation. But I do remember, at one point when my father's attention was turned in a different direction, I shot my fiancee an quick, apologetic look. He knew it was not my fault and that it was a premeditated move by my father. But I knew why. My fiancee did not.

We stayed only for half an hour. We got up and my father shook his hand and confirmed the date for our engagement. I smiled weakly and nodded to him as we parted ways. I tried to swallow the boulder, but I felt sick.

We drove home in utter silence. My father looked exhausted. He did not look upset or happy. It was a pensive look. I, on the other hand, wanted to throw up. I kept opening up the window for fresh air. The rain had become torrential and it was a game of opening and closing the window to prevent the rain from coming in. I bit my nails furiously and each time my father grabbed my hand away from my mouth.

Usually I would protest. I would confront the issue. I would rake him over the coals for what he did. I would lash out and let the violent emotions take control.

This time, I kept quiet.

Silence is not a sign of weakness.

I was not giving up.

But I did give in and waited...waited for Him to make the next move.

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

The Romantic Elliptical: Part 12, Here is your Coke. Now drink it.

Growing up in my dysfunctional family, the one thing I learned about my father was that when he was optimistic, something was up. He looked at life through Coke-bottle bottoms with a branded pessimism. Here is your Coke, always half empty. I never got a full bottle. There was always an issue--not enough money, too far away to buy, not cold enough, not bottled with love. I tried not to be sucked into that vacuum but some days it was a struggle. It brought out the dark, violent side of me that I habitually tried to suppress. And when we had an argument, I had to go outside the house into Nature to regain my bearings. I love thunderstorms. I love tornadoes. I was and still am, riveted to sights of disastrous anomalies in the weather. And my attraction was a direct result of peaking violent emotions that needed escape. The porch at my family house was my safe haven. I watched many a thunderstorm from there. The lightning and monstrous thunder did not scare me--in fact, I felt exhilarated at the sights and sounds reaching the depths of my soul.

The next morning, after our evening celebrating the Independance of Pakistan, I felt those emotions brewing in me. I had no dreams the night before but my sixth sense was on full alert. My father was in a chipper mood. Humming, whistling and preparing breakfast without a worry on his mind. I looked outside. It was dark and dreary. I wanted it to hail, I wanted a tornado to rip through the sky and envelope me with it. I was sullen and did not know why.

"We are going to leave in half hour. Get ready and I will take you." I looked at my father with puzzlement.

"Take me where," I asked sleepily. I had a fretful night, trying for the most part to rid my mind of the evening's events. But he came into my mind, without me even trying to conjure up his image. The guy with the tweed jacket. His smile. The look.

The phone rang and it was my fiancee. He knew that I went to the event last night and asked about it. He could not make it due to some prior commitment, but I wasn't listening. He was getting ready for work and would call me later that night. I mumbled something incoherently as my father was in the room, eavesdropping. I could see him frying up an egg and watching me with a sidelong glance. These are things I remembered in retrospect -- signs of things that I was unaware of; me not knowing the turn of events that were about to happen. It was a haze back then but crystal clear to me as I write now and reflect.

We set off that morning with dark clouds in the sky. I could smell danger in the air but could not pinpoint it. As my father drove onto the highway, I turned to him as my heart skipped a beat. All the local malls were in the city. Why were we leaving? He stared directly at the cars in front of him, ignoring my inquisitive glare.

"Why are we on the highway?" I demanded. He switched over and moved into the fast lane. My father never drove in the fast lane.

"I want to take you to a new mall. Its much bigger and more selection," he smiled as he looked over to me, reassuringly. I clucked my tongue and realized that he meant the mall in the next city. It was a ten minute drive away, accessible by highway. I rested my head back and closed my eyes. It had begun to rain and the pitter patter of the raindrops danced on the windshield. I felt drowsy and tired. What I had thought was only fifteen minutes turned into a forty-five minute car drive. I was jerked awake with the stopping of the car at a red light on the off ramp. He was always too heavy on the brakes! I looked around. Where the hell were we? I did not recognize the area and I rubbed my eyes trying to assess my surroundings.

I looked over to my right. There was a rather large shopping mall, just off the highway. Still unsure, I asked my father. Without looking at me, he answered.

"We are in Scarborough. This is the Scarborough Towne Center."

My thoughts began to race. Scarborough Towne Center. Why did that sound so familiar? Suddenly, my mind clicked into first gear. It was the mall where my fiancee worked. I felt my breath shorten and my hands turned clammy.

"Dad," I asked ever so slowly, "...why are we here?" His driving became erratic, cutting off one driver who intentionally slowed down to give us a "friendly" gesture. My knuckles were turning white from grasping the door handle.

"Well, you should see your future. Know how to get around, where to pick him up. See where your bread and butter will be coming from," he responded, quite innocently.

The lump in my throat was huge. I had no way to warn my fiancee. As I tried to think up a game plan, the thunder had just begun. I remember looking up at the sky as we got out of the car and wishing...wishing to be swallowed up so that I did not have to go through this. But as we entered the mall and my father checked the directory for his store, I could not stop the knocking of my knees or the chattering of my teeth, even though I was not cold. I took one long breath and when my father turned to me to confirm his store's location, I smiled back defiantly.

Was it another checkmate? I was now resigned to the fact that there was no strategy--not on my part or by my father. I felt forces pushing him and myself without rhyme or reason. He was praying and hoping that anything he did would be my wakeup call. And as my father walked ten paces ahead of me, like he would when we would argue during a walk, I suddenly understood--he did it to reach the end before I did. To clear the walkway, to warn me of the cracks, the elevated slabs of concrete, the thorns, brush and branches fallen, after a storm, strewn everywhere--threatening to trip me, make me fall. It was his duty to protect me before the inevitable end.

The end that was already destined for me. And as he cleared the path, my vision became focused and I slowed down to see the remnants of the storm. When he turned back to see if I was following, with a quivering smile, the first wave of emotion blindsided me. He wasn't there, against me. He was there with me.

I blinked back my tears and slowly approached what I already knew...

Saturday, December 18, 2010

The Romantic Elliptical: Part 11, Its just a Tweed Jacket!

We drove home after the event. I could not stop thinking about the guy in the tweed jacket. He was standing with his friends as I stood with mine. My gaggle of girlfriends noticed their group right away. A bunch of cocky, know-it-all, jock grouping of guys who were also checking us out. I pretended not to see him but my best friend knew better.

"What are you looking at, Ms Engaged?" I let out an exasperated gasp and gave her a "I don't know what you are talking about" look. She smiled and said he was cute. I shrugged and looked at my watch. "Its time. The ceremony is starting at 7. We need to go into the main hall," I replied, looking for gum in my purse. The girls agreed that we needed one more pit stop to the ladies room before returning to the main hall for the Independance Day celebrations. It was a large crowd, over 300 people throughout the city were in attendance. I saw many old faces and dignitaries from our community. They nodded in acknowledgement when my father introduced me. I held back my yawns. God, this was boring. The girls grabbed me to escape the adult conversations while my father shook his head disapprovingly. I know he wanted me to stay with him but I couldn't take more of his old male friends patting me on the head!

As we walked towards the washroom, tweed jacket guy and his friends were coming our way. My friend elbowed my side. I stomped on her foot. We weren't very subtle. But neither was his stare. As we both approached, he looked me in the eye. Normally, shyness would take hold of me and I would look away, but something told me to look right back. And I did. We locked eyes for a second but I got what I needed in that short span of time. He had smiled warmly but I did not smile back. I was too astonished at what I saw. I turned away quickly and looked down at the floor. My heart was beating wildly and for a minute, I forgot where I was. My friends were talking incessantly but I did not hear a word. I could only think of him.

When we sat down in the main hall, I rewinded what had just happened. I looked around to see where he was but I could not see him. And then I thought about seeing him with his friends, coming towards me. Now I remembered why I was astonished. When I returned his gaze, I saw a look of recognition...

I had never seen him before. Not at any event, wedding or gathering. We lived an hour outside of the city so most events we attended were quite small. But for that split second, when our locked eyes, I thought I knew him and he knew me.

As the ceremony began, I heard voices behind me. When I turned around, he was sitting directly behind me with his friends. I froze. I quickly faced the front and closed my eyes. My friend next to me turned and asked what was wrong. "You look like you have just seen a ghost! Are you feeling ok? You look pale." I shook my head, trying to rid my brain of what I had just seen but I was too scared to look back.

"Can you turn around and tell me ...two rows back, is there a lady with her hair up, red lipstick, fair skin, wearing a cream sweater?" My heart was beating wildly. I thought I was going crazy. My friend looked at me oddly and turned back. She sat for a minute and looked intently.

"No. But that guy you were checking out is right behind you." I asked her again about the woman. "What woman? There are a bunch of guys behind us," she laughed. She rubbed my arms after seeing tears in my eyes. I had seen her. I had seen my mother. Or someone I thought who looked like her. It was a fleeting image. But she was sitting directly behind him. My friend caught on. "She's gone, honey. I know you miss her. And I cannot imagine what its like to lose her, but she is in a better place. Let's think of good things now. Like your engagement! Have you set the date?" I suddenly remembered where I was, who I was and it shook me to the core.

"You are really quiet tonight," my father said as we drove home. I was leaning against the window in the passenger seat, feeling exhausted. "I miss Mom so much sometimes that my whole body aches ...is this what sadness does?" My father remained silent and continued driving. I closed my eyes. Come to me tonite and tell me why you were here. Was it my imagination? Was it my mind playing tricks on me? I had seen my mother once before, in a crowd of people when we visited Niagara Falls. I told my brother and he shook his head in disagreement. "You saw someone who looks like her. You don't want to forget what she looks like so you are looking for her. Its your mind playing tricks on you. Its normal." I didn't know what was normal anymore. All I knew was I was not heading in the right direction.

"I know what will cheer you up. Let me take you shopping tomorrow. You complained that you haven't bought any new clothes lately. Lets go. Out of the city. We can try a new mall," he said. I heard my father's voice and sleeply nodded my head. I felt so tired, like the life was being sucked out of me. When I went to bed that night, I had no dreams. No signs. No mother. Nothing. I was deluding myself. But inside me, deep, deep within the recesses of my soul, a warning bell was going off. And it all had to do with the man in the tweed jacket.

The Romantic Elliptical: Part 11, A vortex of no control

Rewind. And let me test your memory...

It started out as a trip to Toronto in August 1990, with my father to a cultural event symbolizing Independance Day for Pakistan at the Ontario Science Center. I wasn't interested in going but since the passing of my mother the year before, my father was lonely and wanted my company. I could not turn him down. Friends of mine had called earlier in the day to let me know they would be there too. In the main hall, he stood there with a crowd of his friends, in his tweed jacket and khaki pants. Even though there were other proposals coming, I dismissed them all and told my father to let me continue my studies at University. But my sixth sense made me twitch as I watched him that evening.

This happened in the summer of 1990. After my father grilled him about our past, present and future, the chess game began. What was my next move? After the talk, my father sat me down and asked me point blank if this was what I wanted.

Have you connected the dots?

Without my father or I having any authority towards the outcome of events, I was propelled into a vortex, beyond my control. And as these events were occuring, and much to my disdain, my father continued to entertain other proposals, without my knowledge...while I was engaged.

He would disappear at hours on end, and then come back disappointed--without explanation. I would learn of this the following year but by that time, my fate was sealed. My father attempted to derail my plans. It was not obvious to me at the time but I was being warned. I was feuding with my inner voice, ignoring my dreams, and turning away from the signs.

In short, I refused to accept reality. Bad move. I was pretending to know how to play the game. Neither myself or my father knew how but we were both testing out our own strategies without knowing the results. Only He knew. Only He was watching. And only His hand was in all of this. He was the board, and we were his players.

Confused? So was I! During the summer, as I was planning out my engagement, I went with my father to his cultural event. He had been feeling low and speaking a lot about my mother. Her 1st year death anniversary had just passed and I knew he felt lonely. As always, he asked me to go with him, rather insisted I go. I too, feeling alienated and sad, agreed to accompany him. I went that fated evening, not with any intent but only to get out of the house, back into society and enjoy an evening with my friends. Although I left with my father, he joined his friends while I found mine. Now I know what you are all thinking. It could have been a set up. Trust me when I say I know today that it was not. It was a fated night and I could only trust my instincts.

The very next day became the pivotal moment in my life. What turned out as an innocent shopping trip, turned into a disastrous revelation and the beginning of the end...

Friday, December 17, 2010

The Romantic Elliptical: Part 10, Cliffs, Pitfalls and Objects from the Sky

How could he possibly know about my dream? I did not tell a soul. Did she come to him too? Impossible. What are the chances that my father and I would have the same dream. You cannot "share" a dream. I was too scared to ask him, too afraid of the truth.

Ever since I was a little girl, I was the apple of my father's eye. When he came home after work with treats, he only gave them to me. If my brother and sister were around, he would give me the lion's share of whatever he had on him. When he worked on a project around the house, he would always ask me to sit with him. When he went out to run errands, he would only ask me. This would infuriate my siblings but it was the fact of life in our family. My faults, my flaws, my bad-ass attitude and my wit, my charm and ability to make him smile made me his undeniable favorite. I was his eldest. I was his sidekick. I laughed at his cheesy jokes. I worked through his problems. I made him laugh. Yet I also made him cry.

Our fights were intense. Our arguments were challenging. I never took NO for an answer and acquired the ability to change it into a YES. Many times when our verbal arguments went nowhere, I would go to my room, slam the door and take out my pen and notepad. And then I would write for hours. The next morning, he would find an envelope outside his bedroom door - the day's reading for the office. In these letters, I would lay out my argument, finely tuned with more articulate points in my defense than I could ever express in a shouting match. That was not my forte--confrontation. Hence, I relied on my writing to express my thoughts, my point of view, my angle. In the end, he backed down and relented.

However this time, the air was different. An argument, a letter or any type of communication would not change his thinking. It was something I sensed right from the beginning even before I made my attempts to sway his thinking. But I was determined to have it my way, like in my childhood.

I did not communicate about my father's attitude to my fiancee. He was oblivious to my frustration. On the phone to him, I hid my emotions and continued our planning. It was October and we wanted to engagement to take place in December when his entire family would be here. My father would then interject and propose the following year. I did not know why he kept pushing it out. I would be taking my exams in January, the most busiest time of the school year yet my father would not go for a December engagement. I sat him down one day to argue this point. But it didn't take long for him to back down. I moved another player on the board. After a long pause and staring at me intently, he spoke.

"When you marry, where are you going to complete your education?" he inquired. Without so much of an expression, I could see the vein bulging on his forehead.

I smiled and shook my head. I had not given much thought to the idea. Dang it!

"Dad, I have everything under control. I am not even sure where I am going to live at the moment."

He narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips. "I thought you were going to live with their family. That is what his father told me. Do you think on his income he can afford another place?" He moved his player.

We had not talked about living arrangements but he never mentioned staying with this family. I exhaled deeply. "Well that is the charm of it all. We improvise as we go," I shrugged and practically ran out of the room. When I turned the corner, I saw my father smiling to himself. Why would his father already make the decision where we were going to live? We never discussed our living arrangements. Apparently the parents were. Who was running this show? This was not my idea of an arranged marriage where they 'arrange' every detail, including my post-marital life!

When my father left the house, I picked up the phone. Just as I was dialing, I realized the mistake I was about to make. I put the phone back down. Oh, he was good. My father. Master manipulator. I couldn't call my fiancee or I would lash out over a detail I wasn't even sure of myself. Where were we going to live? Where was I going to school? Would we even be able to afford school?

I walked over to my brother who was heavily involved in a computer game. He looked at the expression on my face and asked what was wrong. "Do you have anything to say about what is going on? I am going to be married soon. Your opinion would be nice," I blurted out. My brother was the youngest in our family but to his credit, my twin in common sense. He looked me square in the eye without blinking. "How do you feel about all this? Are you comfortable about this decision?" He turned back to his computer game while I stood there dumbfounded.

I think I was in defense mode too long that I didn't take time to even appraise my own feelings. As I watched his Super Mario Brothers game, I likened myself to Mario. Falling over cliffs, avoiding pitfalls and dodging falling objects from the sky.

Cliffs, pitfalls and objects from the sky.
Falling, avoiding and dodging.

I stared at the screen and realized... this was actually my life. But who was controlling the game?

Thursday, December 16, 2010

The Romantic Elliptical: Part 9, Sharing the dream

My mother was a subtle discipliner. Whenever I went down the wrong road, she would quietly nudge me back to where I belonged. When I tried smoking cigarettes and I thought I had covered my tracks, she asked me to change my clothes before my father came home because she could smell the smoke. Or in Grade 4, when I ate bacon and hot dogs at a friends house, later that evening when we went grocery shopping, my mother threw everything pork-related into the cart. I cried all the way home with guilt. And when my fiancee called one day and my mother picked up the phone, I found out, after she had died, that she had had a conversation with him.

Squeeze me?

She knew the entire time of his existence. And one day, when I wasn't home, she answered the phone and flat out asked if he was my friend, even though he had not spoken a word. When he conceded, she had a pleasant conversation with him. She did not reprimand him or ask anything about the nature of our friendship but she finished their neutral discussion saying this: "I am her mother. But she is her father's daughter. So I am not the person to impress. You have my blessing as long as YOUR mother knows." She swore him to secrecy but when she had passed away, he told me the whole story.

I spent the next few days trying to analyze her dream. The times I saw her at night were getting fewer and fewer. But when she came to me, there was always a reason. This was the first time I sensed her unhappiness. Usually she would try to lift my spirits. What did she want me to stop? She had already given her blessing. What was she trying to tell me? Why was she warning me? I decided not to tell anyone about my dream.

Ironically, as I walked around in a frustrated daze, trying to interpret her message, my father's demeanor had changed and he was in a great mood. When he came home from work, he insisted we take long walks after dinner. I obliged for two reasons: one to gauge his feelings towards my impending engagement and second to cement my plans moving forward. We set out one particular warm, breezy evening. As we were walking, my father reminisced about my birth.

"When you were born, you lit up our lives. That is why I gave you this name. It means, light of a candle. It had taken over a year to adjust to this country and it was a dark road, especially for your mother. But when you came into our lives, we were complete and you guided us. Now I am here to guide you."
I pondered over what he said in silence. He continued. "When you get married, you will understand what I mean and it will be your turn to start off on that dark road." I stopped walking but my father continued ahead of me without stopping.

"What do you mean, when I start that dark road? Why is it dark?" I had to run to catch up with him. Without looking at me and still staring straight ahead, he made a statement, disguised as a question. "But you really don't know him. You think you do but young hearts can be deceived." I stopped walking again.

"That's not fair, Dad. You are judging without knowing all the facts. You don't know what I know. And from what I know, I think I am making the right decision!" My father continued walking but slowered his pace. I stood still on the sidewalk. My father stopped ahead as well. He turned around so we were facing each other. I folded my arms in front of me and raised my eyebrow. As I watched him, my father raised his palms up towards the sky. "Only He knows better." He turned around and started walking back home. I followed slowly, about ten paces behind him. He did not slow down nor did I increase my pace. We walked like this all the way home.

When he reached the front door, he turned to me and asked, "Does your mother come to you in your dreams?" I abruptly stopped in my tracks, with my mouth hanging open.

"She always looked beautiful in her saris," he smiled wistfully. And with that, he walked in and closed the door as I stood shaking on the porch.

Checkmate.

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

The Romantic Elliptical: Part 8, Silence is louder than words

I put the phone down and smiled. Finally, we were getting somewhere. I immediately called my best friend and divulged all the details to her, all within earshot of my father. She was overjoyed and offered to help me plan for the engagement. Traditionally, it was be done in our home so we began planning the food, decor and what I would wear. My father folded his paper and went upstairs. In the morning, my brother asked what I had said to upset him. "He was talking in his sleep all night," remarked my brother. I told him that I had spoken only to my friend over the phone about my engagement plans. I mulled over what my brother said the next day and realized that my father was concealing his true feelings. He did not want this to happen. But why was he going along with it? I moved my player on the board.

From all my friends, only my best friend knew about my engagement. It was odd but I didn't or couldn't talk about it to others until it was legitimate. Within my own extended family, as everyone gushed about my actual engagement, I chattered along with them, devoid of emotion. What was wrong with me? I should be happy - an exciting chapter in my life was about to begin. What I did note was that I attributed it to the fact that my mother was not there to share in my joy. A diversion? A mask? Only she would have been able to decipher the truth. But she was not there to explain the lingering feeling that nagged me as if someone was tapping on the window of my soul.

The silence of my father was the only thing I could hear. It was loud but not clear. Growing up with an opinionated parent was what I was used to. I was used to his arguments and I would keep quiet out of respect. But as he watched me quietly, I became louder to block out his wordlessness. Occasionally I caught him looking at me with a sad smile. When I would smile back confidently, he would sigh and return to what he was doing. I moved another player.

My fiancee's sister called me to get my measurements. Her mother was in Pakistan preparing my dowry. We talked about the colour of my engagement gown and how to match the decorations. She told me that I made her brother happy. I smiled bashfully into the phone, not knowing what to say next. As she babbled about other details, I swallowed a lump in my throat as I looked at my parent's wedding picture on the wall. My mother stared back at me. A perfect China doll, with porcelain features, red lips and a small petite smile, hands folded dutifully in front of her, standing inches away from my stern-looking father. I stared back at the picture. And then I dreamt of her that night.

She came to me, standing at the top of our stairs, wearing a blood-red sari. She looked sad and she stood alone. Her arms were folded in front of her and she called my name. I tried to answer back but I didn't have a voice. She continued to speak but I couldn't hear what she was saying. I tried to read her lips and I realized that she was repeating a word. Over and over again. I strained to hear her and I tried to climb the stairs to come closer but my legs were like lead and my voice was inaudible.

I woke up in the middle of the night, gasping for air and wildly looking around my room. When I realized it was all a dream, I lay back down. My pillow was wet and I realized I had been crying. The lump was still in my throat. And as I calmed down and lulled myself back to sleep, it wasn't until the morning when I understood what my mother was saying.

Stop. Stop. Stop.

The Romantic Elliptical: Part 7, Checkmate

After she passed, he called me. I was in a terrible state and felt vulnerable. The family was a mess and everyone tried their best to console each other. But we were all weak and I needed a rock.

Our calls started up again and this time he did not hide the fact that we needed to legitimize what was going on. He wanted to do the right thing and insisted I tell my father. It was not until a year later where I got the guts to do this and it leads us back to my post when I revealed it all to my father.

This happened in the summer of 1990. After my father grilled him about our past, present and future, the chess game began. What was my next move? After the talk, my father sat me down and asked me point blank if this was what I wanted. I slanted my eyes and looked him squarely in the face. "Why do you ask? You already know this is what I want." He sat in silence and just stared at me. No expression on his face.
"Then if this is your decision, we need to start the ball rolling. I need to contact his parents." My father got up and left the room. I sat motionless for the next ten minutes. Did I hear him right? Did he just agree to it? It was completely anti-climatic. I expected yelling, arguing, him convincing me not to go through with it. But instead, he gave in. Too fast. Without a complaint and much worse, with the intent to push forward! I felt blindsided. I felt unsettled. It was the first checkmate.

My father called his friend and he contacted the parents. They invited us to come and visit. His mother lived abroad but we met his father and younger sister. Nice family from humble means. They lived in a modest home and prepared a simple meal. But there was already a difference in language. Although they spoke our native tongue Urdu, they conversed amongst themselves in Pushto. Their family was from the Northern part of Pakistan where many dialects were spoken in the Sindh province. It didn't bother me but my father made a point of highlighting this fact. Their customs would be slightly different from ours. He slyly moved one player on the board.

He called me the next day to tell me that his family approved. I was elated but something troubled me. But I could not figure it out. It was more a feeling than anything logical in terms of a thought. I didn't know why I was bothered. I knew I was making a huge decision but I knew it was the right thing to do. I knew him, he knew me so what was the problem? I was resigned to the fact that if I married someone else, someone of my father's choosing, I would not know that person as much as I knew him. It was the fact that I knew him which supported my decision to marry. If I was going to have an arranged marriage, I wanted to know my spouse before I married him: his likes, dislikes, ambitions, his personality and his mindset.

My father's friend spoke to me the following week. He congratulated me on the phone, confirming that he spoke to their family and that a verbal agreement for marriage had been finalized. All that we needed to do was to have a formal engagement. As I nodded in approval, I glanced up and found my father watching me from the living room. He was looking over his newspaper with only his eyes visible.

It was unmistakable. Although I could not see the expression on his face, his eyes were laughing.

The Romantic Elliptical: Part 6, The Ultimate Rebellion

My friend/fiancee/confidante was a strange relationship. Albeit strange within a non-Muslim environment. I attended high school with no pressure to date, initially. Most of my friends were male because I clicked with the boys more than the girls. And I credit it to my "as-a-matter-of-fact" personality. I don't beat around the bush. I daresay women are complicated beings. Girls in high school were like cats on the prowl. Some were your friends, some were your enemies, others pretended to be your friend, complimenting you on how skinny you looked while feeding you sweets. They purred in contentment and lashed out when you crossed their imaginary lines. Hey, back then, I am just telling it like it was.

But with my male friends, they meant what they said and said what they meant. No complication, no innuendos, no trickery. Straightforward. And I liked that because there was no confusion. So I became one of the guys while maintaining my friendship with the female population. How? Because they all knew I couldn't date the guys! I did not hide the fact that my culture and religion dictated no dating. Even as a minority in my school (there were in fact only 4 muslims), I was not shamed to talk about my heritage or my beliefs. In fact, I still remember the cafeteria conversations on comparative religions that went on for hours -- we even skipped classes when the discussion became interesting.

Why do I go into all of this? Well, I am a great listener. And when boys and girls alike came to me with their relationship issues, I was an unbiased counsellor who gave them my point of view. Imagine, a girl, never in a relationship, never went on a date, dishing out advice! But since I was friends with both sides, I saw each story and tried to resolve the issue with a compromise. The only thing was... I couldn't apply these practices to my own life!

A few months before my mom passed in 1989, I stopped speaking to my friend. He was devastated when I stopped writing back and distanced myself from our conversations but my reason was simple. He cared for me more than I did for him. I saw where our friendship was going and it scared me. What was unique about our situation was that we only met once, in a public gathering. He never asked me to meet him in secret even though he lived in the next city. He respected my beliefs and understood my reasons not to meet -- more to protect me if I was ever seen with him anywhere. Now this may seem strange to the average person reading this but even with him, I tried to comply to my religion. My father had successfully wired me with a conscience although a part of me tried many years to unwire his hold on me. Except for the secrecy, I felt I did nothing wrong. I had seen much worse. And so had my father who was active in the Pakistani community. Back in the 80s for a girl to "be" with a boy was looked down upon as she brought shame not only to herself but her family.

But this secret was the only thing I could 'own.' It is hard to articulate this today but back then, it was a rite of passage I needed to experience. I lived too many years, nodding in obedience, doing the RIGHT thing, complying to everything and everyone; sacrificing my happiness for others. The repression was too much. The obedience was too much. My family was too much. And I became selfish. And I had to legitimately escape. Sounds like a typcial teenage trial. Not so enticing for the average person but really...I was committing the ultimate rebellion.

Sunday, December 12, 2010

The Romantic Elliptical: Part 4, cont'd, Faith

You could say I lost my faith in science and progress
You could say I lost my belief in the holy church
You could say I lost my sense of direction
You could say all of this and worse but

If I ever lose my faith in you
There'd be nothing left for me to do

I never saw no miracle of science
That didn't go from a blessing to a curse
I never saw no military solution
That didn't always end up as something worse but
Let me say this first

If I ever lose my faith in you
There'd be nothing left for me to do


--"If I ever lose my faith" by Sting

There was a time when I lost faith. Of course it happened at the times when my life sucked. But there was always a force that picked me up and resolved my misery. I was inevitably given a sign to renew that faith. My mother received her sign. She knew three months before she lost her life that she would be taken away and I didn't believe her. I fought all the signs but like the song says, science got me no where. And I had to give believing a chance...

When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade. When life gave me lemons, I tried to peel them with my fingernails. And as it stands today, I always tackle every problem in the most complicated way. It was the way I was raised. If something didn't take a lot of effort, I wasn't trying hard enough or working hard at it. It was an age-old debate with my father about work ethic. Coming as an immigrant, it was engraved into his eternal being that we would have to work very hard to attain the luxuries in Canada. That meant whenever we were working towards any goal, it meant showing him that we worked hard for it. I wasn't smart enough back then to show him the 'perceived value' like most of my friends. According to father dearest, there were no short-cuts, cutting corners, cheating the system or finding a simple solution. Hence, that was how my brain was trained. The point to this tirade was that I had other ideas, and rebellion was not what I planned -- it just happened.

I was indeed engaged to someone else. Well sort of. And to boot, it was with someone of my own choosing. God forbid! The worse thing, back twenty years ago, was the knowledge that I escaped the traditional binds of my culture to find my future husband. And let me tell you, this didn't pan over very well with my father who was more concerned about my reputation. Imagine! The nerve of her; choosing her OWN husband. And that I did.

It never was formalized but remained a verbal agreement without a ceremony, exchange of rings or a trading of dowry. But it existed and it soon became a reality that I didn't seriously consider. He was a friend I knew for many years and when the going got tough in my life, he was there at my most vulnerable state. Somehow, we had to legitimize this friendship and when I announced it to my father, he was dismayed, stunned, stoic, flabbergasted--a mix of volcanic emotions. Just writing about it conjures up images of that one blue vein that used to pop in the middle of his bald forehead when he was angered. Silence and the vein.

I wasn't sure what angered him more: my rebellion, the concealment of the relationship or my frank ability to outsmart and outwit him. I presented the topic of my potential mate during a non-chalant conversation while watching 60 minutes. I will never forget him turning off the television and facing me with the statement:
"You robbed me of my duty of finding you a husband."

In my eyes, with a pure, unadulterated strategy, my future fiance was presented to him on a platter. It was the "take that" action I committed that left my father reeling. He knew very well that I was about to embark on the next chapter of my life without his help. I thought I was smart. I thought I was in love. I thought I had the strength and faith to carry it out. And no one was going to stop my bus. Get out at the next stop if you can't handle it!

Little did I know, the invisible umbilical cord was about to be yanked--not by Mommy, but...Daddy. A hundred lemons hit my Freedom Bus and I was frantically pulling the cord so I could jump off at the next stop!

If I ever lose my faith in you
There'd be nothing left for me to do

The Romantic Elliptical: Part 5, Spidey Senses tingling...

Now I know what you all are thinking. The purpose of the "Romantic Elliptical Saga" is to present my viewpoint about arranged marriages. And here I go off on a tangent, talking about my rebellion. But let me explain. In my eyes, I did not sin. To my father and the rest of the Muslim world, I erred by concealing my relationship. However, in the end, I did reveal it to my father so he may arrange the marriage with this boy's family. I could have run away, eloped and married him without my father's consent but I never had the guts to entirely betray my only living parent.

I do have a point to all of this and its about faith and kismet. In the end, I did not have control, although I thought I did. In my tumultuous relationship with my father, he was used to having the upper hand. Not that it was my goal to upstage him. I just wanted to do something MY WAY. To show him it was the RIGHT WAY. And boy, was I wrong!

The friendship I had with this fellow was just that - a friendship. And it was formalized over the phone and through letters.

Squeeze me?

That's right. My friend only knew me through telephone conversations and letter writing. He remembered seeing me at a youth conference way back in 1985. I was friends with a mutual friend. We exchanged pictures and wrote each other letters. Of course, this was all secretive. My family thought the calls and letters were from a girlfriend. My siblings soon found out but were sworn to secrecy. My mother suspected something but never said a word. In retrospect, I think she knew I needed to do this despite the wrongs associated with my decision. That was the type of parent she was. Learn from my mistakes. Whereas my father was the ruler of the house. His way or the highway--except I had no way to get to the highway!

We agreed to tell our families. I told my father, who after hearing about how long I corresponded with my fiancee (2 years) and without his knowledge, refused to speak to me for a week. When he came to his senses, he called his brother, to come and meet his future nephew-in-law. So he suited up, came to my house and was raked over the coals for two hours by my father and uncle. I remained unseen, furiously biting my nails and rocking back and forth at the top of the stairs. When I spoke to him afterwards, he likened the meeting to a police interview in an examination room and it all went wrong, from the minute he walked in. This was not a suitor that was chosen by my family. He was being examined under a microscope because of me. He had just dropped out of 2nd year university and was working at a men's clothing store. WRONG ANSWER. Was he going to go back and finish his education? Not yet. WRONG ANSWER. How was he going to support me when I continued my studies? He would get another parttime job. WRONG ANSWER. What were his ambitions? He wanted to start his own business. WRONG ANSWER. I sat quietly listening as he expressed his fear about my father. Welcome to the club.

And as he continued to speak, something in the pit of my stomach ignited. It was ever so slight but there was something brewing.

And I'm not talking indigestion.

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

The Romantic Elliptical: Part 4, Don't judge me until you know me

My last blog posited the fact that I had no control over the events happening in my life. But since the passing of my mother, I opened my eyes beyond sense, lost faith in science and progress and enveloped everything around me...to come to the realization that there were unseen forces that ruled the Earth. Sounds very spiritual, coming from a nineteen year old. But tribulation brings the onset of revelation.

The small detail I left out while relaying my story about my current husband? While I was entering the contract of a non-traditional pact with him...

Wait for it...
Wait for it...
Wait for it...

|
|
|
|
V

....I was engaged to another man.

Its incredibly hard to write a blog posting when lying down - my back is killing me!

You guessed right. You will have to wait until the next posting to know the shock, the horror and immorality of it all...

Tuesday, November 30, 2010

The Romantic Elliptical: Part 3 cont'd, "The Father Proposal"

During my exams, my father, who knew I was tired of the living room parade of potential suitors, told me to serve tea to his friends who were coming over one evening. I was in typical studying mode - sans makeup, track pants and goggles. My suspicions were alerted when he asked me to change and brush my hair - although social mores dictates hygiene and presentation when entertaining guests. For some strange reason, my sixth sense was tingling again.

When they arrived, it was an older couple. As I came into the room to serve the tea, my father innocently asked where their son was. Turns out there was a party on my street and he was sent two blocks down to park the car. I then realized I was part of a ruse. Another 35 year old? An immigrant? What was I being sucked into?

I hid in the kitchen and peeked through the door partition. When their son arrived and enter my house, I blinked twice. I could not believe my eyes. It was him. The guy from the events. In my living room, with his parents, talking with my brother. I gasped. I paced the kitchen and could not make a run for my room without him seeing me, in my most natural state, without makeup and the frumpiest outfit known to man. Ok, here goes nothing, I thought as I entered the room with a serving tray. I kept my eyes focused on the floor as my father introduced him to me. And the whole time, I could not look up. I heard him ask my brother about me, my studies but I could not muster the courage to speak to him, with my father only a few feet away and his mother's perpetual gaze on me. Chastity and demureness are key -- the minute you eye anyone's son or vice versa, tis' a big NO NO. And I had to play by the rules or else I would be subjected to a two hour lecture about my insolence and disobedience. Yes, this happened regularily.

Fast forward. We met three times at each other's homes. Chaperoned. My brother and sister with his brother in the room. At least we got away from the elders. But I was still tongue-tied. Nothing I said came out right. We both were trying too hard to make a first impression and it was hell! I would drive home and consult my brother who could not offer anymore insight into his impression of my suitor. I was perplexed when my father would ask what I thought. What was there to say? I really knew nothing about him and was too scared to ask anything personal with my family sitting in earshot of everything word we spoke.

While I attended my classes at University, my Canadian girlfriends were flabbergasted. You haven't been alone with him? You are not allowed to date? You are chaperoned? As I meekly smiled back at their astonished faces, my mind raced for justifying the situation I was in. On one hand, I was completely and utterly unsure about marrying him. But then there was a settling in my heart that reassured me that I was about to make the best decision in my life. It was a strange duel ensuing within me. But it was a different battle I was undergoing when it came to the former suitors. I KNEW they were not the ones. But this one was different and the signs had come to me before I had even met him. Seeing him twice before he landed in my living room perplexed me but also left me with a sense of destiny. I can't explain it but I, who was always taught sense and sensibility was being ruled by my heart and not my brain. It was not love, it was not even a crush. The feeling was devoid of emotion yet I was unexplicably drawn to him without any reason. And it was a force I could not reckon with -- out of my hands, out of my control and yet I allowed it to lead me.

But as always, there is a twist to the story. One small detail I left out...

Squeeze me?

Sunday, November 28, 2010

The Romantic Elliptical: Part 3,"The Father Proposal"

I was nineteen. And like the cliche, we saw each other across a crowded room.He claims not to have seen me, but you know when you are spotted. I spotted him as he did me. And it was then I had that sixth sense -- you know, the one I keep talking about. It knaws away at you until you cannot brush it away. I was drawn to him as I stood with my girlfriends, giggling and checking out the decor (code meat market language).

It started out as a trip to Toronto in August 1990, with my father to a cultural event symbolizing Independance Day for Pakistan at the Ontario Science Center. I wasn't interested in going but since the passing of my mother the year before, my father was lonely and wanted my company. I could not turn him down. Friends of mine had called earlier in the day to let me know they would be there too. If I was going to be bored by the festivities, I could at least hang out with the girls.

In the main hall, he stood there with a crowd of his friends, in his tweed jacket and khaki pants. Even though there were other proposals coming, I dismissed them all and told my father to let me continue my studies at University. But my sixth sense made me twitch as I watched him that evening. And then the irony of it all it happened, AGAIN. I saw him two months later at another cultural event. I was with my siblings and he was with the same crowd of friends. Again, he claims to not have seen me. But his father did.

So the hunt was on, for lack of a better word. His father contacted a mutual family friend who knew my father. And the call was made to meet our family. Unbeknowst to me, of course...and the non-traditional romance was about to begin.

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

The Romantic Elliptical - Part 2, "Kismet"

I write this next post with trepidation. I'm about to embark on the story of how I met my husband, much to his dismay. But there is a point I want to make here and its about "kismet".

Squeeze me?

I am a firm believer of fate and I can honestly say that I was fated to meet him and it took many twists and turns towards the end result --an arranged marriage.

SQUEEZE ME?

Yes. Whenever you mention the two words, arranged marriage, side by side, the Western world recoils at the notion. Let me clarify this idea as I get jaw-dropping, eyeball popping reactions when I tell people about my own marriage. For most that know me well, they would not fathom me agreeing to it in the first place.

According to Wikipedia, arranged marriage is: a marriage arranged by someone other than the couple getting wedded, curtailing or avoiding the process of courtship. Such marriages had deep roots in royal and aristocratic families around the world, including Europe. Today, arranged marriage is largely practiced in South Asia, and the Middle East and East Asia. The match could be selected by parents, a matchmaking agent, matrimonial site, or a trusted third party. In many communities, priests or religious leaders as well as relatives or family friends play a major role in matchmaking.

Let's look at my own checklist:

*match was selected by parents
*match was referred to by a third party
*match avoided courtship
*match was arranged by family friends and conducted by a religious priest
*match was predestined (I added that one because I saw the sign even before everything was mapped out)

The one thing I must point out - in Islam, if you do not consent to the marriage, the woman has the right to refuse the proposal. If you hear anything different (forced marriage, childhood engagements, really old men marrying teenage girls), this is culturally imposed. It has nothing to do with religion.

Rewind 20 years ago when I was eighteen --I was adamant against arranged marriages. Who were they kidding? I was going to meet my own mate and make that decision myself. But my trajectory in life was not heading in that direction. When my mother passed away that year, everything spun out of control. I lost my bearings and had could not grasp onto the unfolding events. That is why its "kismet" -- a fated force that pulled me towards my husband, no matter how hard I tried to avoid the inevitable.

And if I were asked if I could go back in the past and have the control to change those events, I would not. Ask my non-Muslim friends who attended my wedding, begging my father to find them a husband like mine ;)

Stay tuned for Part 3, "Father Proposal"...

Thursday, November 11, 2010

The Romantic Elliptical: Part 1

"I want the concentration and the romance, and the worlds all glued together, fused, glowing: have no time to waste any more on prose." Virginia Wolfe

Whitman, Austen, Wolfe, Gibran, Eliot, Shakespeare: Oh, the trickery!

As a young girl, my notion of romance was based on the media and literature I was exposed to; movies, fairytales and teenage dreams. And like every girl, I wanted in on it. I grew up falling in love with eighteenth and nineteenth century literature: the Victorian age of chivalry, sensibility, and romanticism. And it shaped my perceptions in the most traditional way. But when I married, at the ripe old age of twenty, it was far from your expected, traditional and romanticized societal union.

My marriage was arranged and the sentiment of romance was non-existent from the get go. So when I got an elliptical as a birthday present to commemorate by 40th, I didn't bat an eye. Or the Nike runners on my wedding anniversary. Or the breadmaker on Mothers Day.

Squeeze me? What the hell does an elliptical have to do with romance?

It will take a series of blog posts to explain but I aim to shed light on the fallacy that is romance, via my non-traditional wedlock...

Thursday, November 4, 2010

Chamomiled Shankar

I slept for a few hours last night. Thanks to Chamomile and Ravi Shankar.

Squeeze me?

Norah Jones HATES being asked about her father while being interviewed. She claims the interview is about HER and not her father, Ravi Shankar. Yes, she is his real daughter. So is Anoushka, her half sister. I always thought it was a shame every time she huffed and puffed about her genealogy. Facts are facts but she is a private person, protecting her life and an absentee father. But I digress.

I stumbled on a combination of chamomile tea and more importantly, a song -- a collaboration of Norah and Anoushka. You see, Norah's half sister has fallen in her father's footsteps and also become a famous sitar player, just like Daddy. I never listened to Ravi growing up but knew he was world reknown and taught The Beatles for a three month stint in India.

So talent breeds talent and I was sent their song by a friend who assured me that this song would send me into a world of relaxation. Norah's soft bluesy voice coupled with Anoushka's beautiful rendition on the sitar. As I finished off my tea and inserted the headphones of my MP3 player and programmed the song to repeat, I fell asleep to this beautiful song named "Easy". She is saying that when your young, love is more real, because you have never been hurt or had your heart broken, and after you grow older, it becomes just another facet of life that loses that first feeling you had when you experienced it in its pure form.

And it was that easy...to unite two sisters, East and West and for me to meet them somewhere in the middle.

Monday, November 1, 2010

The Finding Me Factor

Ok, so one of the benefits of not sleeping is staring up at the ceiling and counting non-existent sheep. In the midst of losing myself in this age-old practice, I started analyzing my life--every minute and gory detail.

I was awake like any other night, lamenting on entering my 40s, when a jolt went through my body at 3am this morning upon the realization that I did not know whether I had IT in life. By the term, IT, I meant what I want in life.

Happiness. Health. Wealth. Success. A great relationship. Fame. A Legacy.

At the end, what is it we are all aiming for? Subjective, isn't it?

And while we pursue whatever it is we are looking for, I don't think I have met ONE person who has EVERYTHING they want in life. There are always skeletons in the closet, ghosts in the corner of our eyes, and monsters arising from the ground. I am not talking about your average horror flick. I am talking about...insecurities.

We all have them. I don't care how confident you appear on the exterior. Of course, some ARE more confident than others. But the only ones I know who are completely fearless are the innocent babes who have not experienced life. Been burned, betrayed, screwed, hurt, fallen, and experienced failure. Most certainly, we learn from our mistakes, although many won't or don't.

But for me, all of these experiences have shaped who I am today. I have written many times that hindsight is 20/20. We all wish at some point to go back in time to right all the wrongs. But this isn't 13 going on 30 or Freaky Friday where you can rewrite history. The reality of the matter is the NOW. Forget the past, bury the skeletons, exorcise the ghosts and face the monsters. To find me entailed all these actions.

What do I want in life? If I am looking for certain things, I have a feeling I wouldn't recognize it unless it slapped me in the face.

And then it hit me, like a ton of bricks, at 4am this morning.

It has slapped me in the face... many times.
And I realized just then, adversity was key to understanding my life.

Squeeze me?

Health= a nephew with cancer
Wealth= a trip to a third world country
Happiness= access to the amenities required in life
A relationship= riding the rollercoaster of emotional highs and lows without puking
A legacy= allowing my progeny to make mistakes and learn from them
Fame= phonecalls and face to face meetings with those who having meaning to me
Success= to find the inherent good in everyone despite evils in the world

It lasted two weeks, my certainty of a "midlife crisis". And as I sat on my window ledge and looked out at the sky, I nodded in acknowledgement. The only certainty is death and not to take anything I have today for granted.

And then I slept...like there was no tomorrow.

Naturally Me

Sleep has eluded me.

It happened around the time I turned 40.

Squeeze me?

I have been laying awake almost every night, confused by my inability to sleep. It was as if my biological clock woke up and alerted every hour to prevent me from enjoying blissful slumber.

Now I live as a nocturnal being--and my mind wanders at night pondering my existence as I lay staring at the ceiling. Hubby snoring, leaves rustling outside in the wind, and my own heart thumping in my brain.

I think its too early to label it insomnia as I drift off at various times of the night--not quite REM sleep but a strange light, 'pretend' sleep where my mind tricks my body that its sleeping when in fact I am aware of all my surroundings. I have the strangest dreams, or 'pretend' sleep episodes that range from work, family and friends, all in the weirdest situations. I won't go into detail in fear of either exciting or alienating some of the people that read this blog. Let's just say these seem to be caffeine-induced dreams.

I must have a stimulant (namely caffeine in the form of coffee or my fav drink, RED BULL) to stay awake--however this chemical reaction propels me throughout the day and there is no slowing down by the evening. Soft music, warm milk, hot baths, reading laborious manuals, watching scientific documentaries, intense needlepoint...nothing brings me to sleep. I drink an ample amount of water to flush it out of my system but to no avail. You may wonder if I take drugs to keep awake, why don't I experiment with them to fall asleep?

Ironically, somehow I cannot bring myself to do the opposite. Call me crazy (and at many times of the day, I do have the wild-eyed look about me) but I need to fall asleep naturally.

But what is truly natural these days?

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

The things I miss the most -- cont'd

Checklist


-drive 150km on the 407: DONE (I clocked 160 yesterday and still had other drivers whizzing past me--yeah, that sucks)

-rake the leaves and jump in it: DONE (last weekend, I handed the rake over to one of the girls who couldn't understand why the lawn was still a mess)

-watch a sunrise and sunset in the same day: DONE (Sleepless in Markham)

-ballroom dancing (forgot to add to the original list): PENDING (with no partner in sight)

My midlife crisis has officially begun...

Friday, October 22, 2010

The Eternal Smile

When I was a baby, I slept the entire day and kept my parents up all night. The term "colic" was unheard of in the 70s. The doctor claimed I was in the process of 'developing'. My parents came home and took turns watching me--groggy, irritable and sleep-deprived. As they rocked me, they would check to see if I was asleep.
But I just looked back, smiling.

When I was two years old, I had no teeth, could not speak or barely walk. After the tenth visit to the pediatrician, the same doctor yelled at my parents and claimed I was still 'developing' and quite notably, speaking some strange alien language only understood by neigborhood pets.
But I just smiled my toothless smile.

When I was four years old, I constantly disobeyed my father. Leaving the house in the morning, only to be returned by neighbours after sunset. I could not sit still. A new doctor told my parents that I was not hyperactive and suggested to change my diet. When my father would say NO, I would unabashedly question WHY? My defiance silenced him.
But I just smiled, removed my clothes and ran naked down the street.

When I was ten years old, I had a uni-brow, moustache, crooked teeth, and a complexion so dark that you could see the whites of my eyes and teeth at night.
I was the only minority in a vastly caucasian neighborhood where the kids picked on me based my physical appearance. When they shoved me off my bike, pelted me with snowballs, ostracized me from social circles and threw out racial remarks, I often wondered why God made me so different.
But I just smiled and beared it.

When I was thirteen years old, mouth full of metal, decorated with goggles and equipped with a fast wit, I exasperated my enemies by challenging them with intelligence. "Go back to your country!" they would demand. I would laugh and tell them that brown people were here before they were (of course, I was talking about the natives) but this would perplex them and out of embarresment, they still beat me up.
But I just smiled, and as the fists flew, I wore my physical scars like a badge of honour while hiding my emotional ones.

When I was fifteen, and told of what I could not do or be, I retreated into my cocoon. I relied heavily on my imagination of what I could be. Defeated, I gave up pieces of myself to make others whole. Only mothers can think of the future because they give birth to it in their children. And she tenderly picked up my pieces, purposely mixed them up and put me back together. I emerged from the cocoon and allowed them to see my true colours. Colours of sadness, anger, hope, hurt, pride, inner beauty and acceptance.
And I smiled as I opened and displayed my transparent wings.

When I was eighteen, I was a boat, lost in an angry sea -- without an anchor.
And I smiled back, when she waved down to me and smiled her eternal smile.

This smile has stayed with me all my life, through thick and thin, in ups and downs. Its an eternal smile of wisdom and patience. And I have learned that to receive all that is good in life, we must endure all that is bad. The smile may grow weary at times but its contagious and infectious.

And when you wake up tomorrow morning and come across a stranger (who may be enduring the bad) never think twice about sharing your smile. It may just help them be whole again...

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Mama's Tribute

On a birthday, most people are caught up in all the hoopla - their age, parties, gifts, dinners, cake, etc.

Instead, I remember my mother.

She was beautiful, intelligent, quiet and demure. I never heard her raise her voice and she protected me unconditionally. She never asked for much, accepted her lot in life, and only remained here for the sake of her children.

My mom passed when I was 18. The world as I knew it would never be the same. She was taken away too early, too fast and I wasn't able to share my many milestones. But I know, without doubt, she has been with me every step of the way.

She continues to come to me in my dreams, fleetingly, leaving me empty when I awake, as I grasp to remember her as she left me.

When I held my first born, my heart ache was two-fold: partly in joy for the new life I brought into this world and for the lifeline that left this world 20 years ago.

No one can replace MY mother. Squeeze me? Oh yes, many have tried but I do not allow that proximity. To me, that's sacrilege.

My birthday is not about me -- it is a tribute to my mama.

Heaven is at the foot of your mother.

Sunday, October 17, 2010

The Things I Miss the Most

I was feeling nostalgic this weekend after turning the big 4-0. Starting a new decade in my life made me reflect about what I missed the most in the past. And I realized some of things I need to do now before its too late.

I miss:

-smelling magic markers (I realize I can do this now but where and for how long?!)
-playing soccer in the backyard from sunrise to sunset
-posing for pictures for our high school Grade 10 science book (I can strike a mean pose with a beaker!)
-bike rides to the local variety store and paying 25 cents for a chocolate bar
-driving 9 hours to Sault Ste Marie Ont in the fall when the leaves changed colour
-being in the only Muslim girl singing Christmas carols up in the boonies with my Christian friends
-watching scary movies at night and waking up in the morning with a fever
-in high school, having more guy friends than girl friends (men were uncomplicated back then!)
-working the Midnight Madness shift in Sears as a teen and chatting up the shoppers
-singing and playing the guitar for our garage band in a carport
-camping in a tent with junkfood, magazines, flashlights -- in my own backyard
-Duran Duran--Simon LeBon (my imaginary boyfriend)
-going to McDonalds with my dad, just him and I
-counselling all the boys about their girlfriends
-boys calling my house just to hear my dad's accent and getting drilled why they were calling me
-breaking curfew and my friends laughing to see my dad's bald head and angry expression in the living room window (no matter what time I came home)
-taking my American Motors Hornet car (no shocks, faulty brakes, wired-shut trunk, vinyl seats and gasoline-smelling) with 10 people down the Upper Middle Road bypass (reknown for crazy hills) at lunchtime for a joyride...note: many would forego going in the Jag/Benz/Beamer to go for lunch in my crazy ride
-my mom :(

What I need to do now:

-go 150km/h on the 407
-just buy the CX-9 and live in the moment..of being eternally broke
-get over my fear and learn to swim (contingent on a hot swim instructor)
-chase a tornado (its my destiny)
-tie my tubes (cannot imagine formula and diapers right now)
-rake up the leaves, jump in them, make a mess and rake them again (take order and make it chaotic)
-call my family and tell them I love them (even the ones who annoy me)
-watch a sunrise and a sunset in the same day
-pick up a stranger

I have to stop missing and just go and live. Tomorrow, I may not be here.

Thanks Steely Dan.

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

I don't get it

The other twin, my dreaming daughter, has always been a little of a struggle for me. From the day she was born, I knew I would be tested with her. When my vet twin, at 6 months, would sit still and listen to my directions, the dreamer twin would stick out her tongue, tuck her hands under her armpits and cry. Whatever I would tell her, she would do the complete opposite.

I call her the dreamer twin because she wants to grow up, go to Eygpt and dig up bones. I bought her a book about Eygpt when she was eight and since then, the stories of the Pharoahs and pyramids enchanted her and accelerated her imagination to envision a world of her and archeology. Funny thing is, her math and science marks...well for better terminology, SUCK.

I have a friend whose wife went into the anthropology field. He told me she didn't finish her degree. It was a highly competitive field and very gruelling. Day in and day out of painstaking measurements and research while fighting in what seemed to be predominately a man's world. I listened attentively and pondered his comments and then thought about my daughter. She is a dreamer and I wondered, do I break her well-manufactured bubble now or let her learn for herself?

She would often come to me with her homework, be it math, science, history, English (ok, pretty much the entire curriculum) and say, "Mamma, I don't get it." I would scold her and say, "Did you even try?" The minute the going got tough, she would give up and seek help. "You give up too easy. Read the examples and go from there," I would say, but she came back, like a boomerang. She would not relent. "I still don't get it," as she curled up beside me. While I held her imaginary hand, we would conquer and complete the question together, without seeing the light in her eyes.

This phrase infuriated me from the time she could speak her first words. I swear, when she was born, she must have heard me say, "I don't get it" when the doctor said I delivered twin girls (whereas the ultrasound showed a girl and a boy). Since then, she had adopted this phrase--and for me, it was one royal COP-OUT.

I sat her down last night and had a heart to heart with her. I chose my words carefully. Growing up with a father who told me that I would not amount to anything unless I studied around the clock was not the motivating, "I have a dream" speech I wished to impart on my daughter. Instead, I sat down with her and smiled. She stared at me, speechless, as I sat smiling at her. "What do you want to be when you grow up," I asked. She thought it was a trick question. "I don't get it," she replied and I was about to bang my head against the wall. But I kept my composure.

"You know I want to become an archeologist." Instead of telling her everything my friend told me about the path to archeology and the years spent trying to attain this goal, I turned to her and said, "Yes. You can be anything you see yourself being. But you have to WANT it. Really bad." She nodded her head profusely. "Then you have to stop saying, I don't get it. You have to think out of the box and stare at what confuses you until you see something you understand."

I said this to her as kindly as possible despite our history of angry door slamming and room departures, hair-pulling attempts towards clarity and ridiculous arguments stemming from allegations that her teachers were wrong and she was always right. Again, she nodded and I could see she was internally debating whether I was naturally calm or drugged out of my mind. "Do you really think I can do it? Do you believe in me?" I almost fell out of my chair. How could she think this way? Why would she think otherwise? And then I realized... I had never said it, never said it out loud--that I believed in her abilities and potential.

I looked her square in the eyes and responded with a firm YES. She got up and I thought it was to come over for a hug but instead, she walked past me, with determination in her eyes. That evening, she worked for two hours straight and not once asked me for any help--although I lingered in the hallway, just outside her door.

I call her my dreamer twin in contrast to my vet twin which connotes the idea that one has her future decided while the other is still finding her way. I realized to dream is better than not dreaming at all.

And today, as she approached me with wide, shining eyes, and handed over her math test that she studied for the night before, with a huge 92% marking on the first page, I knew I needed to keep her bubble intact.


"The finest gift you can give anyone is encouragement. Yet, almost no one gets the encouragement they need to grow to their full potential. If everyone received the encouragement they need to grow, the genius in most everyone would blossom and the world would produce abundance beyond the wildest dreams. We would have more than one Einstein, Edison, Schweitzer, Mother Theresa, Dr. Salk and other great minds in a century." Sidney Madwed

Friday, October 8, 2010

Epiphanies in the stove

Friday night, I kicked everyone out of the house. I opened the windows and breathed in the fresh air. As soon as I heard the car door slam, I knew I was free. Even with the onslaught of Fall, it felt like an Indian summer with the warm breeze hugging every corner of my lovely abode.

I could have grabbed my purse and ran out to shop. Or ran out to have coffee with a friend. Or ran out to take a walk. A million things to do and only two hours to do them in. I stood out in my backyard, on my deck, and looked at the trees. Listened to the birds, and pondered life as I knew it. And then I put on my rubber gloves.

Squeeze me?

Yes, I went indoors, slapped on the rubbers and got to work. Removed one burner at a time and sprayed the inside of the oven with the most repelling oven cleaner known to mankind. I hid my nose under my t-shirt and turned on the exhaust fan. Inhaling the toxic fumes only made my existing cough even worse. And I scrubbed. Yes, I do not have a self-cleaning oven. You are looking at her. And for years, I have refused to bow down to peer pressure to get one. And the other pressure of hiring a cleaning lady. You see, I LIKE to clean. And for me, its therapy. I don't need a psychiatrist to tell me how I am feeling, what I am feeling and why I am feeling this way. My stove has all the answers. The harder it is to clean an item, the more I get out of it and walk away content and relieved.

If you want to really know me, talk to me when I am cleaning. Especially when I am mad. I have been known to stop, in the middle of an argument, grab a Windex bottle, some paper towels and start wiping down a counter, much to the surprise of the other person.

When I am happy, I clean. When I am pissed off, I clean. When I am sad, I clean. When I want to reflect and be myself, I clean. And if the world is a mess around me, I cannot sit down until its clean.

Wash away my sins, impurities, negativity and the wrongs in my life. Order to the chaos. And it is the only thing I can control.

The Girl in the Mirror

As she walked into the room, all eyes were on her. The flutter of her eyelids, the curve in the small of her back, the luminous shine in her hair, the mystery behind her stare. Her intent was to be invisible and study the environment around her. But instead, she became the object of study. In her smooth movements where her dress sashayed towards the corner of the room, she encountered stares from everyone--male and female alike. And as she approached the end of the line and turned to face her audience, she paused before looking up. What is wrong with me, she immediately concluded. She sighed heavily and then raised her gaze.

He stood before her, a stranger with kind eyes and a genuine smile. And when he began to sing, her peripheral vision blurred and it was only the two of them alone - and she learned that her worst critic, was in the corner of the room...

Oh her eyes, her eyes
Make the stars look like they're not shining
Her hair, her hair
Falls perfectly without her trying

She's so beautiful
And I tell her every day

Yeah I know, I know
When I compliment her
She wont believe me
And its so, its so
Sad to think she don't see what I see

But every time she asks me do I look okay
I say

When I see your face
There's not a thing that I would change
Cause you're amazing
Just the way you are
And when you smile,
The whole world stops and stares for awhile
Cause girl you're amazing
Just the way you are

Her lips, her lips
I could kiss them all day if she'd let me
Her laugh, her laugh
She hates but I think its so sexy

She's so beautiful
And I tell her every day

Oh you know, you know, you know
Id never ask you to change
If perfect is what you're searching for
Then just stay the same

So don't even bother asking
If you look okay
You know I say

When I see your face
There's not a thing that I would change
Cause you're amazing
Just the way you are
And when you smile,
The whole world stops and stares for awhile
Cause girl you're amazing
Just the way you are




Don't change for anyone, because you are loved just the way you are.

Friday, October 1, 2010

Pakistan taught me to...

One thing that struck me while on my trip was the notion of time.


Whereas the day flies in North America, it didn't go fast enough for me while in Pakistan. Many would argue had I had a good time, the time would go faster. But I disagree. Life was just different. Or was it me?


Sure, we were busy (when there wasn't loadshedding) but it reminded me of my teenage years - lying in the backyard, staring up at the sky and forming shapes of the clouds, wondering when time would hurry up so I could grow up and finally be free.


Its a funny concept. Liberation. But what does it really mean? Well in Pakistan, it could have meant having the basic enemities which majority of the population lacked. Or walking freely outside. Or speaking English without fear. Or going outside without worrying about what you were wearing. Its highly subjective. All I know was that Pakistani life was too slow for me and therefore, suffocating. Despite the hustle and bustle, the over-population, the conjestion and the 'in your face' factor, everyone in Pakistan was just TOO RELAXED.


Squeeze me?


It has been pointed out to me how fast I: walk, talk, eat, work, cook, clean, drive, read, react...ok, you get the picture. As far as I can remember, I have always been hurrying to get things done. I remember my father rushing me out of the house as if someone was going to steal our car, rushing me to eat as if my food would disappear, rushing me to fill out my university applications, as if these learning institutions would change their mind. If I took time to formulate an argument about why I wanted to extend my curfew to 8pm to 9pm, he would interject and tell me it was too late to defend myself. I was never fast enough.


In Pakistan, I found myself flying past Ruby on the stairs as she sauntered around conducting her errands. Or I would hurriedly set the table while my relatives lounged in the sitting room talking about nonsensical things while I waited at the dinnertable, by myself at 10pm. I almost tripped over Bucka (or Buckoo) trying to get into the car to go for a shopping trip. I could have sworn that the goats exhanged strange glances with each other while I piled into the car and ask them to drive out, even though the gate was still closed. I just couldn't slow down.


Looking back, I thought my trip would go faster if I went faster. Instead, I was a hyperactive, multi-tasking octopus, trying to get errands done, shopping done, visiting done, gift-giving done, banking done, sightseeing done, loadshedding over with, etc. Even when we were leaving the country, as the passport officer nonchalantly flipped through the blank pages of my passport, I steamed in my own impatience.


The ache to go home was overwhelming but a part of me was telling me to SLOW IT RIGHT DOWN. I was not going to get this experience back so I needed to block out the past and the future and just concentrate on the present. But my brain was wired to the fast paced life I had created for the last 40 years. Rewiring would require a lobotomy.



The irony is that I long for that time when I was a teenager again, lying in my backyard... but this time, wishing the opposite. To enjoy my youth, close my eyes and live in the moment...hindsight is 20/20.